“Ladanque, I will be strolling the forest for a period. Take care that Vat Five retains its roil. If you wish, you may distill the contents of the large blue alembic into a stoppered flask. Use a low heat and avoid breathing the vapor; it will bring a purulent rash to your face.”

“Very well, sir. What of the clevenger?”

“Pay it no heed. Do not approach the cage. Remember, its talk of both virgins and wealth is illusory; I doubt if it knows the meaning of either term.”

“Just so, sir.”

Rhialto departed the manse. He set off across the meadow by a trail which took him to the Ts, over a stone bridge, and into the forest.

The trail, which had been traced by night-creatures from the forest on their way across the meadow, presently disappeared. Rhialto went on, following where the forest aisles led: through glades where candole, red meadow-sweet and white dymphne splotched the grass with colour; past stands of white birches and black aspens; beside ledges of old stone, springs and small streams.

If other creatures walked the woods, none were evident. Entering a little clearing with a single white birch at the center, Rhialto paused to listen … He heard only silence.

A minute passed. Rhialto stood motionless.

Silence. Had it been absolute?

The music, if such it had been, assuredly had evolved in his own brain.

Curious, thought Rhialto.

He came to an open place, where a white birch stood frail against a background of dense black deodars. As he turned away, again he thought to hear music.

Soundless music? An inherent contradiction!

Odd, thought Rhialto, especially since the music seemed to come from outside himself … He thought to hear it again: a flutter of abstract chords, imparting an emotion at once sweet, melancholy, triumphant: definite yet uncertain.

Rhialto gazed in all directions. The music, or whatever it might be, seemed to come from a source near at hand. Prudence urged that he turn in his tracks and hurry back to Falu, never looking over his shoulder … He went forward, and came upon a still pool, dark and deep, reflecting the far bank with the exactness of a mirror. Standing motionless, Rhialto saw reflected the image of a woman, strangely pale, with silver hair bound by a black fillet. She wore a knee-length white kirtle, and went bare-armed and bare-legged.

Rhialto looked up to the far bank. He discovered neither woman, nor man, nor creature of any kind. He dropped his eyes to the surface of the pool, where, as before, the woman stood reflected.

For a long moment Rhialto studied the image. The woman appeared tall, with small breasts and narrow flanks; she seemed fresh and clean-limbed as a girl. Her face, while lacking neither delicacy nor classic proportion, showed a stillness from which all frivolity was absent. Rhialto, whose expertise in the field of calligynics had earned him his cognomen, found her beautiful but severe, and probably unapproachable, especially if she refused to show herself except as a reflection … And perhaps also for other reasons, thought Rhialto, who had conceived an inkling as to the identity of the woman.

Rhialto spoke: “Madame, did you call me here with your music? If so, explain how I can help you, though I promise no definite undertaking.”

The woman showed a cool smile not altogether to Rhialto’s liking. He bowed stiffly. “If you have nothing to say to me, I will intrude no longer upon your privacy.” He performed another curt bow, and as he did so, something thrust him forward so that he plunged into the pool.

The water was extremely cold. Rhialto floundered to the bank and pulled himself ashore. Whoever or whatever had thrust him into the water could not be seen.

Gradually the surface of the pool became smooth. The image of the woman was no longer visible.

Rhialto trudged glumly back to Falu, where he indulged himself in a hot bath and drank verbena tea.

For a period he sat in his work-room, studying various books from the 18th Aeon. The adventure in the forest had not agreed with him. He felt feverish and ringing noises sounded in his ears.

Rhialto at last prepared himself a prophylactic tonic which caused him even greater discomfort. He took to his bed, swallowed a soporific tablet, and at last fell into a troubled sleep.

The indisposition persisted for three days. On the morning of the fourth day Rhialto communicated with the magician Ildefonse, at his manse Boumergarth beside the River Scaum.

Ildefonse felt sufficient concern that he flew at speed to Falu in the smallest of his whirlaways.

In full detail Rhialto described the events which had culminated at the still pool in the forest. “So there you have it. I am anxious to learn your opinion.”

Ildefonse looked frowning off toward the forest. Today he used his ordinary semblance: that of a portly middle-aged gentleman with thin blond whiskers, a balding pate, and a manner of jovial innocence. The two magicians sat under the purple plumanthia arbor to the side of Falu. On a nearby table, Ladanque had arranged a service of fancy pastries, three varieties of tea and a decanter of soft white wine. “Extraordinary, certainly,” said Ildefonse, “especially when taken with a recent experience of my own.”

Rhialto glanced sharply sidelong toward Ildefonse. “You were played a similar trick?”

Ildefonse responded in measured tones: “The answer is both ‘yes’ and ‘no’.”

“Interesting,” said Rhialto.

Ildefonse selected his words with care. “Before I elaborate, let me ask this: have you ever before heard this, let us say, ‘shadow music’?”

“Never.”

“And its purport was — ?”

“Indescribable. Neither tragic nor gay; sweet, yet wry and bitter.”

“Did you perceive a melody, or theme, or even a progression, which might give us a clue?”

“Only a hint. If you will allow me a trifle of preciosity, it filled me with a yearning for the lost and unattainable.”

“Aha!” said Ildefonse. “And the woman? Something must have identified her as the Murthe?”

Rhialto considered. “Her pallor and silver hair might have been that of a forest wefkin, in the guise of an antique nymph. Her beauty was real, but I felt no urge to embrace her. I daresay all might have changed upon better acquaintance.”

“Hmmf. Your elegant airs, so I suspect, will carry small weight with the Murthe … When did her identity occur to you?”

“I became certain as I slogged home, water squelching in my boots. My mood was glum; perhaps the squalm was starting its work. In any case, woman and music came together in my mind and the name evolved. Once home I instantly read Calanctus and took advice. The squalm apparently was real. Today I was finally able to call on you.”

“You should have called before, though I have had similar problems … What is that irksome noise?”

Rhialto looked along the road. “Someone is approaching in a vehicle … It appears to be Zanzel Melancthones.”

“And what is that strange bounding thing behind him?”

Rhialto craned his neck. “It is unclear … We shall soon find out.”

Along the road, rolling at speed on four tall wheels, came a luxurious double-divan of fifteen golden-ocher cushions. A man-like creature attached by a chain ran behind in the dust.

Rising to his feet, Ildefonse held up his hand. “Halloa, Zanzel! It is I, Ildefonse! Where do you go in such haste? Who is that curious creature coursing so fleetly behind?”

Zanzel brought the vehicle to a halt. “Ildefonse, and dear Rhialto: how good to see you both! I had quite forgotten that this old road passes by Falu, and I discover it now to my pleasure.”

“It is our joint good fortune!” declared Ildefonse. “And your captive?”

Zanzel glanced over his shoulder. “We have here an insidiator: that is my reasoned opinion. I am taking him to be executed where his ghost will bring me no bad luck. What of yonder meadow? It is safely clear of my domain.”